


i’m now becoming my own self-fulfilled prophecy

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Implied/Referenced Abuse, canon-typical trauma, oh you know just sylvain things TM [BASS BOOSTED], spoilers for mercedes/ferdinand supports, sylvain copes via sex and thats kinda dubcon-y, the sylvix is so background and ambiguous i cant even tag this m/m in good faith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 00:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21027488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When Sylvain is somewhere between three and four months away from turning three years old, a sprawling black script appears on his wrist. Sylvain, being a baby, of course does not remember this moment: his parents leaning over his crib, peering down at the lettering. His father scoffs first, and his mother sighs.“It can’t ever be convenient, can it?” Father shakes his head, a grimace on his face. “And here, I was hoping that we needn’t look.”“It is His Grace’s boy, at least,” Mother tries to placate him. She puts a hand on his arm, one that Father doesn’t bother shrugging off. “If nothing else, it’ll be good for strengthening ties.”“There is that, I suppose,” Father allows, but his tone is cold, still; he’s disappointed with Felix before he’s even met him.written for sylvix week 2019. day 2: soulmates





	i’m now becoming my own self-fulfilled prophecy

Once, when Felix was younger, he’d yelled and cried over how he wanted to be bonded to _ Dima, I want Dima to be my soulmate. _

It’s been years since then, and most if not everyone else has probably forgotten it, but Sylvain still remembers clear as day; the tears running down Felix’s cheeks, the sobs heaving from his chest, the way he’d clung to Dimitri even as Sylvain stood, still and silent, beside him.

In retrospect, this is one of the moments that defines the course that Sylvain’s life will take — though at the time, he does not know it.

  
  
  


“So,” Sylvain says casually, as he lands a heavy hand on Dimitri’s back. Dimitri instantly stiffens, at the contact, before relaxing into the touch. Beside him, Dedue raises his eyebrows at Sylvain.

It’s only been a day or so since they’ve (they being Sylvain, Dimitri, Felix and Ingrid) arrived at Garreg Mach, and it took Sylvain forever to locate the library where Ingrid said she’d saw Dimitri at. He’s sure that in time, he’s grow used to it, but for now, all the stupid, overly complex architecture does is give him a damn headache.

But at least he’s here now. And Ingrid was right, Dimitri _ is _ holing himself up quite nicely in the library. So there is that, at least.

“Ah, Sylvain,” Dimitri turns to greet him courteously, a polite smile on his face. Sylvain resists the urge to snort. “Is there anything you require of me?”

“Aww, chill out, Your Highness,” Sylvain whines, crossing his arms behind his head as he makes wide, puppy eyes down at Dimitri. “Is that any way to treat your wonderful childhood friend of almost fourteen years by now? I’m hurt, really.”

“In that case,” Dimitri cocks his head, a tiny, miniscule smirk playing on his lips, “Is that any way to address _ your _childhood friend of almost fourteen years, by now? It’s Dimitri, Sylvain.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sylvain says casually, “so I’m just going to ignore that you said that. Anyway--“

“Really?” Dimitri sighs, long and loud, but seems to resign himself to it. Which is exactly the reason why Sylvain will continue to refer to Dimitri as ‘Your Highness’; it’s just too funny.

Maybe that’s mean, but whatever.

“--so I heard from a little birdy--“ the birdy in question being Ingrid, to be exact, but Dimitri doesn’t need to know that his second most loyal knight has ratted him out, “--that a certain blond prince has gotten the chance to meet his soulmate, on this miraculous day. Know anything about that, Your Highness?”

Dimitri immediately flushes, and Sylvain can’t help but crack a satisfied grin at that. Goddess, is there anything more fun than flustering his friends?

No. The answer is _ no. _

“Word truly spreads quickly, doesn’t it,” Dimitri mutters, before he shakes his head, straightening back up and gathering himself. “Ah- Well, yes. That is- er, correct. I had the pleasure of meeting her today, in fact. She’s in the Blue Lions as well, so you too should be making acquaintances with her quite soon.”

“Oooooh,” Sylvain leans in. It’s beginning to feel alarmingly like they’re prepubescent girls sharing secrets during a sleepover — but Sylvain digresses. “Come on, then. Tell me about her. This mysterious _ Mercedes _lady of yours, c’mon. Why’s she in the Blue Lions? I’d have wagered Black Eagles, or something.”

“Sylvain!” Dimitri protests, face turning redder by the moment. “I-- T-That’s her private business! If you truly want to know, then go ask her yourself!”

“Awww,” Sylvain draws back with a disappointed pout. “And here I thought we could get a good ol’ gossip session going, you know. Paint our nails. Talk about our crushes. Stuff like that.”

“Urgh, Sylvain,” Dimitri groans, and puts his face in his hands. Dedue, so silent and still that Sylvain had almost forgotten he was still here, subtly pushes a glass of water closer to him.

“Well, then,” Sylvain starts, and his tone abruptly turns serious. It must be obvious, because Dimitri tenses again, and when he looks back up at Sylvain, there’s no more blush tainting his cheeks. His expression is grave. Sylvain pauses, for a short moment, before continuing, “Tell me one thing, at least.”

Dimitri nods, almost imperceptibly.

“Is she,” Sylvain wets his lips, then makes a wavy hand gesture, “you know?”

A beat. Then--

“She’s a commoner, Sylvain,” says Dimitri.

“Ah,” Sylvain nods in understanding. “I see.”

They fall into a silence. There’s nothing more to be said, really.

  
  
  


When Sylvain is somewhere between three and four months away from turning three years old, a sprawling black script appears on his wrist. Sylvain, being a baby, of course does not remember this moment: his parents leaning over his crib, peering down at the lettering. His father scoffs first, and his mother sighs.

“It can’t ever be convenient, can it?” Father shakes his head, a grimace on his face. “And here, I was hoping that we needn’t look.”

“It is His Grace’s boy, at least,” Mother tries to placate him. She puts a hand on his arm, one that Father doesn’t bother shrugging off. “If nothing else, it’ll be good for strengthening ties.”

“There is that, I suppose,” Father allows, but his tone is cold, still; he’s disappointed with Felix before he’s even met him.

  
  
  


Growing up, Sylvain has always been a bit of a control freak, which is highly ironic given that he ultimately has no autonomy of his own. Or perhaps it is due to this lack of freedom that Sylvain thusly rebels against his own chains, and demands some proof of his own cognizance of self.

This does not logically lead to the conclusion of Sylvain bedding every woman in sight that he can, but alas, Sylvain is not much a fan of being chained down to anything — logic included.

“That’s what I hate the most about you,” Felix tells him dryly over lunch. “You know it’s terrible, but you still do it anyway.”

They’re barely a month into the school year, and already, things have gone sideways. But in like, a good kind of sideways, in Sylvain’s opinion, meaning that a very attractive female Professor is now in charge of their class, _ and _she can kick some bandit ass, as well. Which is pretty sick, if anyone asks Sylvain.

He makes a point of it to eat his meals with his childhood friends, you know, strengthening bonds and all that good stuff. This, of course, includes his darling and dear soulmate, Felix Hugo Fraldarius himself. Who himself seems to make it a point to insult Sylvain at every opportunity.

“Awww, Felix,” Sylvain cooes, and bats his eyes. Felix, predictably, grimaces at the sight, looking away. “Tell me more,” Sylvain continues, propping his head on his hand, still furiously fluttering his eyelashes at Felix. “Ooh, I love it when you dirty talk me.”

“Shut up,” Felix hisses, his cheeks betraying him and turning just the slightest tint of red. It’s very cute, and makes Sylvain want to pinch his face just a little bit. “Ugh, you-- And don’t think I didn’t notice how you’re trying to change the subject!” Felix whips back around, snapping at Sylvain. Sylvain jerks back in instinctual shock, his hands flying up to the air in surrender. “Honestly, Gautier, your little girlfriends are loud enough that _ I _can hear them, and there’s even the boar’s room between us. Control yourself. It’s getting annoying.”

“See, that’s just proof of how _ good _I am--“

“Shut it,” Felix orders, again, and so Sylvain obediently ‘shuts it’, though not without an amused raise of his eyebrow. Felix bristles. “It’s only been a _ month,” _ Felix emphasizes. “You disgust me. Have you no shame? Have you forgotten that you live right above our _ Professor?” _

Sylvain pauses briefly. He had, in fact, forgotten completely.

But he can’t just say _ that. _

“Aww,” he cooes instead, and Felix is already recoiling, “Felix, are you _ worried _ about me? That’s so sweet! ...Or are you worried about the _ Professor?” _ Sylvain lets out an over dramatic gasp, at this one. “Felix, don’t tell me that you _ like--“ _

Felix shoves a piece of his sausage into Sylvain’s open mouth.

“Stop talking,” he orders.

Sylvain gags, and Felix mercifully pulls his hand back, just enough that Sylvain is no longer choking. Sylvain obediently closes his mouth around the fork, and accepts the sausage. Felix pulls it out.

Were this in any other context, it might have even been construed as sweet. Alas, it is still Felix and Sylvain, and henceforth.

Sylvain chews, and swallows. In front of him, Felix looks like he’s already dreading what’s going to come out of Sylvain’s mouth next.

Fortunately for him, Sylvain can take a hint. When he wants to, at least.

“Sorry,” he offers. He’s being genuine. “Does it actually bother you?”

Felix glares.

“Why don’t you ask _ yourself _ that?” he sneers.

Sylvain blinks. Then, very awkwardly, takes another bite of his food.

He chews. Felix stabs his sausage with his fork, glowering down at it like it has personally wronged him. Sylvain swallows.

“I mean, like, if you don't like it then I can try try to tone it down?” Sylvain offers unsurely. Felix just sighs.

“Forget it,” he snaps, “you’re clearly too dumb to get it.”

As they eat their food in silence, Sylvain quickly descends into brooding. It’s not something he likes to do, but it’s unavoidable. Especially at times like these, when it feels like Felix is having his own conversation with a version of Sylvain who can actually comprehend the meaning behind the meaning behind the meaning of his multifaceted words.

They say that soulmates are two halves of a whole. They know all there is to know, and they understand all that there is to understand about each other. Not for the first time, Sylvain bitterly concludes that the Goddess must have made a mistake when pairing them up; because most of the time, it seems like Sylvain doesn’t understand Felix at all.

Felix sighs again, loudly.

“Shut up,” he says, and glares daggers at Sylvain.

“I didn’t even say anything!” Sylvain immediately protests, because wow, unfair much?

“You were _ thinking,” _insists Felix. “It was getting annoying.”

“Oh come on!” Sylvain’s jaw drops. “First you’re mad at me for ‘being dumb’, and now you’re mad at me for _ thinking? _ What do you want me to do? These are very conflicting signals I’m getting here, you know!”

“Well, the difference is that you’re being dumb and thinking at the same time,” says Felix in a matter-of-fact tone. “Which is a terrible combination all around.”

“Wow, okay, Mr. Philosopher,” Sylvain raises his eyebrows. “Did you steal that from that one quote, from that one guy who was all like, _ oooh, there's four categories of people--“ _

“How do you just sometimes pull this random shit out of your brain?” Felix cuts him off. Despite himself, he sounds morbidly fascinated. “How about you use it to store actual useful information?”

“Well you see, Felix, my dear, that's simply not as fun--“

“Sylvie?”

Sylvain cuts off in the middle of his retort, his head swivelling to face the new voice in their conversation. Across from him, Felix lets out a groan, and buries his face in his hands.

There’s a girl staring plaintively at Sylvian. Sylvain wracks his head; he _ vaguely _recalls asking her out, but for the life of him, he can’t remember anything beyond that. Still, he forces a wide grin, because he has a reputation to maintain.

“Hey, beautiful,” Sylvain greets casually, hoping that she doesn’t catch onto the fact that he has no idea what her name is. Luckily, the tactic works — she flushes and beams at the address.

“Sylvie, you said that we could go on a date around this time…” the girl latches on to his arm, and Sylvain resists the urge to grimace as the memories come flooding back to him. That’s right, he _ had _said that, hadn’t he? Ugh, what a pain. He’d completely forgotten about that.

“Oh yeah?” he plays along. The girl — Rika, he remembers now, her name is Rika — nods at him, wearing a pout on her lips. “Awww, baby, don’t look like that,” Sylvain cooes, as Felix mimes gagging noises at him. “Come on, now, let’s go to that cafe you like so much, okay?”

He glances back at Felix. “Hey, Felix--“

Felix cuts him off with a snort and a flippant flap of his hands.

“Just go already, you damned horndog,” he sneers. “I’m not your keeper.”

“Thanks, Felix, you’re the best,” Sylvain blows a kiss to him as he stands, winking exaggeratedly. Felix groans, again.

When Sylvain takes Rika’s hand, and starts walking her out the dining hall, she looks back and bites her lip. Her gaze darts down to Sylvain’s wrist.

“Hey, um,” she says, her voice hushed and avoiding Sylvain’s inquisitive eyes, “Was that your, uh--“

“Oh,” says Sylvain. He keeps walking. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But he’s--“

“It’s fine,” Sylvain insists, waving her off. Rika still looks doubtful, but she nods, eventually.

The crestless just don’t get it, Sylvain thinks, with no small level of amusement. Them, with their bare wrists, and their blood that sings of freedom.

When they walk out of the door, Sylvain does not look back; he doesn’t want to check if Felix is watching them or not, he doesn’t want to think about which option would be worse.

  
  
  


Sylvain isn’t sure how it works in the Empire or in the Alliance; he’s heard that Margrave Edmund in the east is firmly devoted to the soulmate system, _ the Goddess’s will is my own _and all that crap. On the other hand, most of the Empire nobles don’t seem to buy into it — Aegir, he’s heard, is the strictest of them all in that regard.

Not that it matters, really. Sylvain isn’t a part of the Empire, and Sylvain isn’t one of the Alliance. Sylvain was born and raised in Faerghus, the nation of _ might makes right. _

There is a compromise in the way they treat soulmate bonds in Faerghus. Faerghans are pious enough to bow their heads to the Goddess, to acknowledge her wisdom and her insight. Yet still, Faerghus prizes their crests and their relics above all; should the soulmate bond be deemed unfitting for the continuation of the bloodline, then unacknowledged it shall go, ignored and tossed away like yesterday’s trash.

What matters most is how the bloodlines mix together. There are studies upon studies conducted on it, the way the genetics weave together, the history of every line. There’s a damned science to it; _ Gautier and Charon mixed have the best chance of producing heirs with the crest of Gautier, Dominic and Daphnel, _so on and so forth.

Reality is hardly as strict as their charts, to be fair. At a point, it gets simply unreasonable to expect the ‘perfect’ match ups for each line, henceforth they will settle for what they can get.

So in public, nobles will marry who they must; if behind closed doors, they’re indulging in the will of the Goddess, then, well. That’s no one else’s business, is it. It is an unspoken taboo — or rather it is an unspoken exception to the taboo.

Sylvain knows this very well, because of the time that he’d found Mother with someone not Father, and Father had walked in behind him, and Sylvain had then been ushered out so as to keep his prying eyes away.

Mother had screamed, but only once, and the Other woman was still around the next day; that is how Sylvain knows that this, in the end, is not that bad of a sin.

  
  
  


The first time Sylvain gets the chance to speak properly with Mercedes, it is nearing midnight, and they are both in the Cathedral.

Sylvain is not one to usually indulge in sleepless nights. The only hours he usually loses are those he spends with others, and not due to any nightmare of his own. If Sylvain were feeling unusually poetic, he may even extrapolate some nonsense about waking nightmares and the like; but Sylvain is not feeling particularly pretentious, at the moment.

But Sylvain digresses. The point is: it is the middle of the night, and Sylvain can’t sleep, and apparently, Dimitri’s soulmate can’t sleep either.

Is it rude to refer to her like that? Well, it’s not like Sylvain really knows her any other way.

Sylvain notices her first, but it is Mercedes who breaks the silence. She turns, and upon seeing Sylvain, her eyes widen just slightly.

“Oh,” she says, then, “Hello.”

“Mercedes!” Sylvain plasters on a smile, and throws in a wink as well, because he can. “My my, aren’t you radiant tonight. Who needs the sun when we have you?”

“The sun is fundamental to our continued existence,” is Mercedes’s unfazed response, which is out of the blue enough to successfully catch Sylvain off-guard. He blinks, once, twice, before quickly gathering his wits.

“Oh, so is this what we’re doing?” Sylvain grins, crossing his arms behind his head and stretching. “Some flirty banter? I’m down with that. Super down.”

“I was unaware that basic scientific facts constitutes as flirting,” Mercedes says, “but I suppose there are all sorts here at Garreg Mach.”

“...Ouch,” Sylvain winces. “Okay, okay, I can take a hint. But you are beautiful, you know? Just gorgeous. That’s an objective fact.”

“Thank you,” Mercedes dips her head in a courteous nod, and the worst part about it is that she actually sounds sincere. “Although, I must say that there’s no need to ply me with sweet words, like you do the rest of the girls. Tell me, Sylvain, what have you come here for?”

Sylvain, once again, finds himself off-balance. He opens his mouth, struggling for the words to say, and so it’s in a far more ineloquent manner than usual that he replies.

“Oh, er,” he stammers, his arms falling back down, and crossing over his chest, this time. “No, I mean, I didn’t come here for any particular reason. Just found myself awake, and decided to take a roam around. You know.”

Sylvain tops it off with a hurried wink.

“I see,” Mercedes hums. She turns back to look at the chapel. “Well, on nights like these, I enjoy coming here to admire the architecture. There’s a lot of work put into it, that I feel most don’t appreciate. So I try to appreciate it for them.”

“...Ah,” Sylvain isn’t quite sure how to respond to that. He steps forward, until he’s side-to-side with Mercedes. And he looks forward, as well.

Sylvain, personally, has never been much a fan of churches and the like. In the pious land of Faerghus, this may come across as blasphemy, but Sylvain holds a certain resentment for the Goddess. In crest and in heart alike; she has shackled him twice, and Sylvain doesn’t think he’ll ever quite manage to forgive her for that.

So this cathedral is not one that brings him peace like it seems to do Mercedes, and these walls are a jail rather than a home. But still, Sylvain looks, and tries to find the cracks for warmth to seep in.

They stand there in silence for a few long moments. Once again, it is Mercedes who takes the first step, and shatters the barrier between them.

“You don’t like me much, do you?” she says.

Sylvain, for the third time in this night, has lost his footing. He snaps his head around to goggle at her, mouth gaping as he tries to find the words. Mercedes waits patiently, even as he ends up sputtering, “You-- I-- I don’t-- Huh?”

Mercedes stares at him, cocks her head, then brings a considering hand up to her chin.

“Or, no,” she corrects herself. “Rather than dislike, it is more a lack of trust. Am I correct?”

Sylvain is quiet for a beat, as he attempts to collect himself. On impulse, he laughs loud and hard, like with this alone, he can drive off the tension in his own body.

“Aw, come on, what makes you think that?” he grins widely at Mercedes, who is still staring back at him, completely unruffled. But Sylvain refuses to let himself falter. “Now, now, you’re part of our little lion pride, aren’t you? And you’re a lovely devoted woman of the church, why _ wouldn’t _I trust you? Come now, Mercedes, there’s no need to say such ridiculous things!”

Mercedes’s placid expression does not change. It’s becoming harder and harder to keep the smile up.

“You seem to care for your friends a lot,” says Mercedes, and Sylvain’s smile briefly drops in his confusion at the seemingly random topic change. But he quickly shoves it back on. “Despite how you act, you’re rather loyal, aren’t you?”

“Um,” Sylvain says, and laughs awkwardly. There is only the mildest edge of hysteria in it.

“So it should only be natural,” Mercedes says with a smile, “that you wouldn’t trust this random commoner woman with the name of your friend and future king wrapped around her wrist, correct?”

Sylvain doesn’t respond for a moment. He gapes at her in abject shock. Mercedes seems to take this as his agreement.

“Well,” she says, “I suppose I cannot blame yo--“

“No!” Sylvain blurts out. Mercedes stops short, and cocks her head at him. “Or, uh,” Sylvain stutters, “Yes? Kinda? N-No? Uh--“

Mercedes allows him time to gather himself.

“Um,” Sylvain says, eventually. He swallows. “Okay, okay, fine. Maybe I’m...a little suspicious of your plans for His Highness. I mean, soulmates, am I right?” Sylvain forces another laugh. “Tricky business, that! Especially when one half is the future monarch, and all. But-- Uh, I swear, I don’t have anything against you personally, I mean, that’s just an asshole move, like-“

“It’s quite alright,” Mercedes says. Sylvain’s mouth snaps shut, stemming his bordering on incoherent rambling. “I understand. If I were in your shoes, I’d imagine I’d be feeling quite the same.”

“O-Oh,” Sylvain says, and stops again, at a loss for words.

“Crests and soulmates,” Mercedes muses. She returns her gaze back to chapel. “In the end, they are both rather easily exploited, aren’t they.”

“...You seem to be speaking from experience,” Sylvain breaches the topic cautiously. He watches Mercedes, wary of overstepping into territory where he isn’t welcome.

But, as she has been the whole night, Mercedes seems untroubled.

“My crest is already enough reason to covet me,” she says, tone matter-of-fact, “but in Faerghus especially, the name around my arm makes me a precious commodity. I was fortunate enough to be sheltered by the church for most of my teenagehood, but it was only inevitable that someone able to pay the fee for me would come around.”

_ “Pay the fee?” _Sylvain echoes, like a particularly daft parrot.

“Oh, I don’t have the financial records on hand to prove it,” Mercedes explains breezily, “and I doubt I will ever be allowed to possess them, but my adoptive father exchanged quite a bit of money with the church, so that they would turn a blind eye to his adoption of me. Not that priest wanted to let me go, but there comes a point where it would be simply illogical not to take the deal, I suppose.”

A beat.

“Dude,” says Sylvain. “That’s fucked up.”

“Quite,” agrees Mercedes serenely. “In any case, I suppose my adoptive father was hoping that my soulmark would be the key to his breaking into ‘higher society’, and if not for that, then my crest would still allow him the chance to marry me into nobility. So it was a win-win for him all around, really.”

“Well, I mean--“ Sylvain fumbles. “Okay, to be frank, His Highness is probably going to be married off to some high ranking noble girl who can produce him some prime crest babies. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain coughs lightly. “But, uh, anyway. Even so, just being his soulmate… You could have met him at any time, right? I’m assuming that’s what you’re implying, and stuff.”

“Yes,” answers Mercedes.

“So then why didn’t you?” Sylvain asks. Perhaps it comes off as accusatory, or nosy, but Sylvain is genuinely confused. “I mean, that would still get you some pretty good clout. And even if _ you _didn’t want it, then your father…”

“Oh, my father always kept pushing me to arrange an audience with Dimitri,” is Mercedes’s calm response. “But I didn’t want to. So I refused.”

“...You what?”

“I refused,” repeats Mercedes.

“...So you just said no?” Sylvain sounds utterly bewildered.

“I believe that is the definition of refusing, yes,” Mercedes says patiently.

“Oh,” says Sylvain.

A pause.

“So you just didn’t do it?” he asks again, though, just to make sure. Mercedes does not sigh, nor does she seem like she wants to; which, Sylvain thinks would be well within her rights by now, frankly.

“No, Sylvain,” she says. “I didn’t.”

“Oh,” Sylvain repeats. He is dumbfounded. “Oh.”

“...Of course, the process wasn’t quite as simple as that,” Mercedes takes pity on him, and elaborates. “There was a lot of struggling, a lot of bargaining… But I was stubborn enough in the end. Honestly, I’m not so sure why I was so vehement about it, but… Well, spite is as good a motivator as anyway, I suppose.”

“Spite?” Sylvain wants to laugh. And maybe cry, just a little. “You?”

Mercedes looks at him.

“Do you think me incapable of resentment, Sylvain?” she asks genuinely, honestly.

Sylvain has no answer to that. So he keeps his mouth shut, and Mercedes drops the topic; they stand there in the Cathedral, not speaking, for a long, long time.

  
  
  


Sylvain is nine when he comes to the conclusion that soulbonds are not a blessing — they are a shackle.

This, perhaps, is the product of a young, over dramatic mind, prone to exaggeration; but Sylvain has never quite managed to waver from this verdict. Either this is evidence that soulbonds are truly terrible, or that Sylvain has still never grown in maturity since he was a child. Both options, Sylvain thinks, are equally feasible.

But Sylvain digresses.

“Isn’t it weird?” Felix is asking. His eyes are wide and round as he sits, perched, on the arm of a bench out in the royal palace gardens. Glenn looks up, from where he’s absently tearing a leaf into shreds. “Doing that with Ingrid?”

‘That’, of course, refers to the act of ‘being engaged’.

They’re all in Fhirdiad; House Fraldarius, House Gautier, House Galatea. A sort of mini get-together or something, a private celebration for Glenn and Ingrid’s recently announced engagement. Ingrid and Dimitri are somewhere inside the palace, probably sneaking into the pantry. Ingrid’s the type, and Dimitri is easily pressured. Plus, he actually knows his way around.

Sylvain, Glenn and Felix, on the other hand, are sitting outside in the gardens. Felix is on the bench, watching Sylvain and Glenn attempt to systematically destroy the mini ecosystem thriving in the palace walls, starting with the fallen leaves. There’s not really much else they can do, given that they’re technically at a formal event and all, and expected to conduct themselves with some modicum of grace, or whatever.

“I mean,” Glenn shrugs helplessly. “It’s bound to happen sooner or later. No use delaying it.”

Involuntarily, Sylvain’s gaze flicks down to the delicate writing wrapped around Glenn’s wrist.

The engagement comes as a surprise to nobody. Like Glenn says, it’s been an inevitability since Ingrid was first born six years ago, and she and Glenn were matched up by the whims of fate. Fraldarius and Galatea aren’t the most ideal of matchups to bear crest babies, but they mix decently enough, and in the end, it’s most convenient to just go along with it.

So Glenn isn’t wrong; there is no _ maybe _ or _ if’s, _ there is only a matter of _ when. _

“But,” Felix frowns, because he’s six years old and still kind of stupid like that. “Isn’t it _ weird?” _he pesters.

Glenn sighs. Sylvain, crouched down at the side, avidly watches the drama play out.

“It’s not weird, Felix,” says Glenn tiredly. “Or, well, I guess it’s kinda weird since Ingrid’s a _ baby _like you.”

“Hey!” Felix protests.

“But anyway,” Glenn continues, cheerfully ignoring Felix’s pout, “It’s not a big deal in the long run. It’s going to happen anyway, so they might as well do it now.”

“But I thought people have to be in love to marry,” Felix says, guileless. “You’re not _ in love _with Ingrid, are you? That’s gross.”

“Oh?” Glenn raises an eyebrow, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “What’s so gross about it, Fee-Fee? Ingrid’s supposed to be my _ one and only, _ you know.”

He reaches up and grabs Felix by the hips, easily lifting him up and off the bench. Felix shrieks, kicking his legs.

“Gross!” He’s crying out, even as he struggles. “Gross, Glenn!”

“We’re destined lovers,” Glenn continues teasing anyway, as he bounces Felix in the air. Sylvain’s eyes can’t help but stray to his biceps; they’re very impressive, in Sylvain’s opinion. “Two halves of a whole. We’re _ fated _to fall in love.”

_ “Glenn!” _

“The same goes for you, you know,” and Glenn’s grin turns decidedly wicked as his eye cut across to Sylvain. Sylvain freezes like a startled deer, as the spotlight suddenly turns to him. “See, Fee-Fee?” Glenn cooes, as he plops Felix down roughly in front of Sylvain. “There he is. Your Prince Charming.”

Sylvain stares up Felix. Felix stares down at him.

And then Felix bursts into tears.

Sylvain’s mouth drops open, while Glenn goes into hysterics. And of course, a crying Felix seems to send an invisible signal to Dimitri and Ingrid, who come barreling in not long afterward.

Dimitri and Ingrid seem appropriately shocked for a few moments, before Felix goes careening into Dimitri’s arms and sobbing about how he wants to marry Dima, and not stupid Sylvain!

“Hey,” Sylvain protests weakly, but he doesn’t get too far before Ingrid rounds on him and Glenn. She’s tiny and short and younger than the both of them, and she’s a _ girl, _but he and Glenn cower before her anyway, because she’s Ingrid.

“Whose fault is it,” she barks out, short and curt, and Sylvain doesn’t hesitate for even a split second before throwing a finger in Glenn’s direction.

Glenn, for his part, graciously capitulates to Ingrid’s scolding lecture, while Felix wails into Dimitri’s shirt as Dimitri tries to comfort him; in the meantime, Sylvain sneakily extracts himself from the whole situation, and does his best to become a nonentity.

It’s not really that Sylvain is particularly offended, or hurt by it. All it does is confirm what he’s suspected all along.

In the years that pass, they will grow up, and forget all about it. At worst, it’s a childish event to look back on, and laugh at their collective naivety. Yet, despite the meaningless of it all--

Sylvain still remembers it. It’s stupid, he knows, because Felix was six, and they were all dumb kids, and no one truly understands what they’re saying at that age. And yet, it’s something that replays in his mind, over and over, while he lays in his bed and stares up at the ceiling and thinks, and thinks, and thinks:

Felix loves him because he is Felix’s soulmate, and his parents love him because he was born with a crest. Neither of these are factors under Sylvain’s control, and Sylvain sometimes looks back, and wonders, _ if this were not the hand that fate granted me, would it still have turned out this way? _

Ultimately, Sylvain will never know; if Felix would still have chosen to walk into this bond with him, his eyes wide open and his mind unclouded of anyone but himself. If his parents would have adored him, still, spoiled him like he was an only child and doted on him like they cared.

Ultimately, Sylvain will never know; yet accepting this does not affect the conclusion that he has come to:

Loving Sylvain is not a choice. It is an obligation.

  
  
  


So, there's two Fodlan's Throat's that Sylvain knows of. One is the mountain range in the east, making up the border between Fodlan and Almyra. A fiercely defended land, where the ground oft runs red, soaked by the soldiers of both countries alike.

The other one is a decently popular bar in the town nearby Garreg Mach.

"So like, my friend, you know," Sylvain is saying, as he waves his hands wildly. "So she's pretty, uh, pretty involved with the whole Almyra thing, you know. 'Cause her brother's that General Holst guy. You know? I mean, of _ course _ you know; everybody knows! Everybody loves that guy. You know?"

"Mhmm," the woman who Sylvain's talking to (Mana? Maria? Marisa? Sylvain's forgotten her name already, but he's _ pretty _sure it started with an 'Ma') is nodding along to Sylvain's words, her eyes glazed over. Sylvain takes this as his cue to continue talking.

"Yeah, so, you know, _ that guy," _ Sylvain says sagely. "So like, yeah, so sometimes, I'm just all, hey, you know, let's all go to Fodlan's Throat or some shit. And then _ she _ looks at me like, all horrified, all like ew, why you wanna go to _ that _ nasty place? Okay, so she doesn't _ actually _ talk like that, but like, spiritually. You know?"

"Uh huh."

"Yeah, and then, I'm like, damn, what did Fodlan's Throat ever do to you? And _ she's _ all like, ugh, like, so many of my acquaintances _ died _ there, it's terrible! And _ I'm _ like, _ damn, _are all your friends like, alcoholics? Because that's what my mind jumps to when people say, oh man, my friend died in a bar. You know? Alcohol poisoning. That's the bitch."

"Yeah. Mmhmm."

"And _ she's _ all like, what the fuck, man, what's alcohol got to with this? And I'm like, what? And she's like, what? And then I remember, like, _ ohhhhh yeah, _ the fuckin' _ border hold. _And I'm like, laughing, and she's all just, Sylvain, what the fuck, this isn't funny you know. 'Cause like, you know, a bunch of people always die there and stuff. Very sad. Anyway, so I'm just sitting there, laughing, while Hilda stares at me like I've lost my damn mind, and like, you know? Maybe I did," Sylvain stares solemnly into his glass of whiskey. He nods. "Maybe I did, man."

"I see," says Ma-something-something, in a way that suggests that she hasn't been listening to Sylvain for the past...something time. Sylvain isn't sure.

Sylvain nods again, and then throws the glass back.

"So like, anyway," he chokes out after he's done coughing from the burn of it sliding down his throat. "That's why I think they should change the name of this bar. Makes things super awkward sometimes."

"Right," says Ma-fuck-you.

"And that's why I propose we rename it to something, like," Sylvain stops for a moment, his mind blanking on the new name he'd come up with just two minutes prior. "Uh."

"Fodlan's Gut?" the woman offers. Sylvain snaps his fingers and points at her.

"Yeah!" he says enthusiastically. "Exactly! Damn, you're good."

"Actually, you were the one who said that just now," corrects the woman.

"Oh shit?" Sylvain's eyebrows raise. "Damn. _ I'm _good."

"...Right," says the woman, and she coughs. "In any case...enough about your friend, alright? I want to know about _ you." _

She leans forward, and puts a hand on Sylvain's knee. Sylvain stares at it uncomprehendingly, his mind still chugging.

"Uh," he says, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth, "Hey, man, uh, M-Ma-- Madison?"

"Erica," the woman provides.

_ "Erica," _ Sylvain nods, acting like he’d known it all along. "You know, you don't _ really _ need to know a lot about me, alright? Ju-- Just enough for like, ay," Sylvain makes a crude hand gesture. _ "Ay." _

Erica giggles, as if on command. Sylvain kind of hates it, though his mind is swirling and he can't think of exactly why, at the moment.

"Right," she cooes, and slides her hand up. Her palm is warm on Sylvain's thigh. "Of course. Well, then, if we both agree on that front, how about we take our leave?"

Sylvain is silent for a moment as he sluggishly processes her implications, and then he lights up.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, totally," he nods wildly, his hair flying. And then he stops himself, grabbing onto the bar counter for leverage, because ugh is his head feeling a real something something at the moment. The world spins before his eyes, and Sylvain blinks once, twice before his gaze refocuses.

“Come on,” Erica cajoles, and her hand is moving, slipping and gripping onto Sylvain’s wrist. She stands, and starts tugging Sylvain up. It’s not a strong pull, by any means, but Sylvain finds himself stumbling off the stool anyway, onto his feet.

“Woah, woah,” Sylvain says, “hold on, hold on.”

He nearly crashes into her back, as he takes a step forward. Erica steadies him, and she walks them out, Sylvain staggering at her side. The cold air of their surroundings hits Sylvain like a slap in the face. And when Sylvain looks up, his sight blurry, he can’t make out anything he recognises.

This is the first warning he gets that something is wrong here, other than the entire premise of the situation at hand. The second warning is when the woman (what was her name again? E-? Elli? Emma?) drags him into an alleyway right beside the bar. Sylvain can’t recall if this alleyway usually exists, but his head is pounding, and the woman is staring at him as she pushes him against the wall, and Sylvain would like to stop thinking.

“Emily,” he tries, and the woman puts a finger to his lips.

“It’s Nicky, sweetheart,” she corrects him, and Sylvain nods in a daze.

“Nicky,” he echoes, the name tasting like bitter ash on his tongue, and Nicky takes her hand away, before firmly replacing it with her mouth.

It is an average kiss. Sylvain has had worse. Sylvain has also had better, but that’s neither here nor there. Sylvain isn’t quite in control of all his mental faculties at the moment, so he kind of just stays still, his eyes still open, and lets Nicky push in further. Her hands grip his hips, and her tongue prods at his lips; Sylvain just parts way and lets her do as she pleases.

Sylvain is as good as a limp fish as the moment, but she doesn’t seem to care much. Her fingers squeeze, tight and suffocating, and Sylvain belatedly brings his arms up to her waist in response, a loose, hanging hold on her.

The third warning he gets — or rather, the culmination and result of the two warnings prior, is when the woman pulls away; in a sharp, brief moment of clarity, Sylvain registers that she is not Mayley, nor is she Erica, and nor is she Nicky. She has no name; a woman of his own imagination, and she has long dark hair and eyes the colour of the sunset.

The revelation flies away just as quickly as it comes; the woman presses back in, Sylvain loses his mind in the feel of her, in the taste of her.

This is a dream, in the end. Sylvain will let himself indulge, until it is time to wake up, and face the latest girl in his bed, his latest conquest in reality.

(For the life of him, he can’t remember her name at the moment.)

In the morning, Sylvain will walk out with hickeys on his neck, just barely hidden by the collar of his jacket. His hair is a mess, tousled beyond the boundaries of what can constitute as artful, and when he staggers forward, his legs still feel like jelly.

Two doors down, Felix is walking out his door.

Two doors up, and Sylvain can’t bring himself to look at him.

  
  
  


Sylvain is eight when he first hits on a woman. This woman is Ingrid’s grandmother, and Ingrid never quite lets him forget this fact.

What Sylvain does not tell her, when she brings it up in her numerous lectures:

It is better Ingrid’s grandmother than anyone else, because Ingrid’s grandmother is a good person. She is safe, and she does not look at Sylvain the way that other women do, in the way that makes Sylvain’s skin crawl and makes him want to hide away forever. When you pick up a weapon for the first time; you do not turn it on an enemy, you start training with a friend.

What Sylvain does not tell Dimitri, when the prince shakes his head at Sylvain’s antics:

Sylvain believes that if he is to take matters into his own hands, to be the viewer rather than the piece of art hanging on the museum wall — you may look but you may not touch, but no one listens to the rules anyway — then Sylvain will finally grasp this autonomy over his own life, his ability to make his own decisions for himself. If you hurt yourself before others can hurt you; then that is a choice you are making, and not the others.

What Sylvain does not tell Felix, who is resigned to the point where he is no longer disappointed:

_ I’m sorry. _

Years and years pass; yet Sylvain is still the same.

  
  
  


Somewhere along the way, Sylvain strikes up a friendship with Mercedes. It’s not something that he does on purpose, nor is it something that’s a complete accident; it just is, and that’s enough.

Sylvain has lived for twenty years, and he’s known nobles and commoners alike, but he’s never met anyone quite like Mercedes, before. Somebody who just _ gets _ him. There are times, where Sylvain wonders if she was meant to be the one for him, if it should have been Sylvain-and-Mercedes and Dimitri-and-Felix and everything would be right with the world-

But he and Mercedes are a little too similar for that to work, he thinks.

Nonetheless, it is on a night remarkably like the first time they’d talked when Sylvain finds himself once again staring down the chapel. The one part about Mercedes that he doesn’t quite think he’ll ever understand is her devotion to the Goddess, but he supposes that he can see where she’s coming from with the architecture aspect.

Or perhaps Sylvain enjoys self-flagellation via staring at walls. Who knows.

It’s a reversal of their roles, now. Mercedes is the one who walks in, and Sylvain is the one who greets her.

“Can’t sleep?” he calls out, a hand coming up to his hip as he glances back at her. Mercedes just smiles, and doesn’t answer the question.

“It’s nice to see you too, Sylvain,” she says. Sylvain grins, sharp.

“Appreciated, beautiful.”

“Still flirting?” Mercedes asks, but she moves on before Sylvain can move to defend himself. “Well, I suppose if you wish. What brings you out here tonight?”

“Can’t a guy admire some cool decorations?” Sylvain says, blinking innocently at her. Mercedes just looks back at him. Sylvain sighs, and throws up his hands. “Alright, alright! You got me. I’ve been totally emo-ing around lately, being broody and shit. I know, I know, very terrible, ew, stop doing that Sylvain.”

“I didn’t say anything like that,” Mercedes says, “but again, you are free to do and think as you wish.”

“...Man, you have a talent for making a guy feel guilty without actually saying anything, huh?” Sylvain winces, scratching the back of his head.

“That’s not my intention,” Mercedes demurs. “I’m sorry for making you feel that way.”

“Okay, stop, you’re sounding way too sincere for my tastes,” Sylvain grimaces. “Please, just, insult me or something. I can’t take this.”

“I’d rather not,” Mercedes shoots him down. “Come now, Sylvain, let’s sit down, shall we?”

“Is this some sort of confessional thing?” Sylvain asks, as he lets her drag him to the pews. “Because I’m starting to get the feeling that this is some sort of confessional thing.”

“Only if you want,” says Mercedes, which does not inspire much hope in him.

“I mean,” says Sylvain, “I really enjoy not talking about my feelings, you know?”

“That sounds unhealthy, but again, that is your own decision,” Mercedes tells him. They reach the pews, and sit.

Sylvain has never really enjoying sitting here. It’s uncomfortable, and his ass starts to hurt after a while, and in general, Sylvain just hates everything that comes with doing it. But for this, he’ll allow one exception, because he gets the feeling that if he denies Mercedes, she certainly wouldn’t care much, but _ he _would.

True to her word, Mercedes doesn’t push. Which is terrible, because Sylvain is easily susceptible to the irony of reverse psychology, and now he actually kind of wants to talk, but also doesn’t because then he would be backing down on his word, and that’s just embarrassing.

So he sits, clamps his mouth shut, and tries not to burst.

Eventually, Mercedes seems to take pity on him, and offers, “If you want to talk--“

_ “So,” _ blurts out Sylvain. He pauses for a brief moment, and allows the humiliation at his overeagerness to wash over him, before quickly shrugging it off and returning to his speech. “Lately I’ve been thinking that I’m a pretty shit person.”

Mercedes hums noncommittally.

“And like, you know,” Sylvain continues rambling. “Shit about the crests, and soulbonds, and whatever, like.”

Sylvain shuts his mouth, and stares down into his lap.

“You know,” he finishes lamely.

“...Well,” Mercedes says, eventually. “In the end, we cannot take back the fact that we have a crest, or that we have soulmates. That is something unavoidable.”

“Oh, I know,” Sylvain says bitterly. “I just-- think, you know?”

“I know,” Mercedes nods. “There’s no need for you to justify yourself, Sylvain.”

Sylvain is silent, for a moment. He tips his head back, and looks up at the sky.

“Man,” he says, after a beat. “You’re really kind, you know that?”

“Am I?” Mercedes asks. She sounds genuinely curious. And Sylvain laughs.

“I mean, that’s what I think,” he shrugs.

“Oh,” says Mercedes. She sounds somewhat unsure, for once. “Thank you, then. But I must assure you, I’m not as much of a saint as you seem to think I am.”

Sylvain snorts.

“Yeah,” he waves a casual hand. “I get that. Doesn’t stop you from still being a good person, you know.”

Mercedes is quiet for a moment. Before she asks, bluntly, “What’s caused this sudden hangup on being a ‘good’ person or a ‘bad’ person?”

“Oh,” Sylvain is caught off-guard. He hadn’t expected her to be so direct about it. Stupid thought, in hindsight. Mercedes is nice, but she is not one to ease into things. “Th-That’s just, you know. Thinking. Again. About...stuff.”

Sylvain winces.

“I see,” Mercedes says.

“You know!” Sylvain rushes to elaborate, tripping over his own tongue in his hurry. “Just, like, hey, I’m not a very good person! And given the choice, no one would love me! ...That’s all. Stuff like that. You know.”

In the silence that follows his declaration, Sylvain draws back, and hunches his shoulders. He stares down at his hands in his lap.

“So you think,” Mercedes says after a pause, “that if it weren’t--“

“Yes,” Sylvain hisses, because if he thinks that if he has to hear it spelt out verbally, then he might actually just die, thanks. Mercedes stops, again.

“I see,” she repeats. “...Sylvain. There’s no use dwelling on such matters. You know that, right?”

“I know!” Sylvain groans, and he rakes his hands through his hair. “But I just keep thinking!”

His hands drop back down.

“It’s stupid,” he mutters. “...Nevermind, actually. Forget all of this happened, alright? I’m just gonna _ go--“ _

“Sylvain,” Mercedes says, and Sylvain shuts up.

She takes his hands in her own.

“It sounds like,” she says after a moment of deliberation. “That the problem is more so just how you view yourself.”

Sylvain’s tongue is tied.

“...I mean,” he says, “I guess? If you wanna put it that way, then yeah--“

“But that’s something you have control over, you realise?”

Sylvain stares down at their joined hands. His mouth is dry and refuses to move.

“If you think that you are not worthy of being loved,” Mercedes says simply, “then you must become somebody who you think is worthy of love.”

Sylvain tries to laugh.

“Hah,” his voice is shaky. “So, is this another one of those ‘if you don't love yourself then no one will love you’ spiels--“

“No,” says Mercedes. “This isn't about other people, Sylvain. This is about you.”

Sylvain bites his lip, abruptly, painfully.

“How other people feel about you is irrelevant,” she says. “I’m not saying that you should change yourself for them. You should change yourself for you.”

She squeezes his hands.

_ “This _is your own choice, Sylvain,” says Mercedes. “Whether or not you become someone who you believe can be loved. That’s your decision.”

Sylvain stares, for a moment.

“...It's not that easy,” he says. His throat feels rough.

“Of course it isn't,” Mercedes agrees. “It's hard. It's very, very hard. I'm not going to lie about that. But, Sylvain,” she twines their fingers together. “What I’m trying to say is, it depends on you.”

And Sylvain licks his lips.

“I don’t think I know where to start,” he says. He grips onto Mercedes, tight.

Mercedes looks up.

“Don’t be silly,” she says. “You already have.”

  
  
  


The day after Glenn’s funeral, Sylvain finds Felix in the gardens of behind his manor. Felix is curled up, his face buried in his knees. His shoulders are shaking.

“Hey,” says Sylvain. His boots crunch in the snow.

Felix doesn’t react. He only lets out a louder sob, which, well, Sylvain sure hopes that isn’t a reaction to _ him. _But maybe it is. That’s fair, too.

“Hey,” repeats Sylvain, softer, this time. He crouches down beside Felix, and puts a hand on his back. “You alright there?”

Stupid question. Of course Felix isn’t alright.

“Shut up, Sylvain,” Felix hiccups.

Which is, you know. Fair.

It’s not that Sylvain wasn’t friends with Glenn as well, or that he didn’t care about Glenn in his own way. But Sylvain is sixteen, and he’s kissed more girls than he can count, and there is a monster that sleeps in the spare bedroom of his house. Which means that Sylvain’s fucked up enough not to cry, or something like that.

So instead, he crouches beside Felix, a hand on Felix’s back, as he pointedly looks ahead, and pretends not to see the tears leaking down Felix’s face.

Eventually, those tears run dry. It is an inevitability, Sylvain has realised.

When that happens, Felix takes a shuddering breath. It’s cold enough that it fogs in air, and Sylvain watches the mist dissipate into nothing.

“...Sylvain,” says Felix eventually. His voice cracks. Sylvain, finally, looks at him, and Felix is looking back. “You can’t,” and Felix pauses, sniffles. “You can’t leave me too.”

“...Of course I won’t, Felix,” Sylvain says, voice quiet.

“You can’t die too!” Felix cries out, and he shoves his body into Sylvain’s front. Sylvain lets out a light _ ‘oof’ _ as the air is knocked out of him, but he manages to steady them both. “You can’t die, Sylvain…” Felix says, muffled into his chest. “Promise me that you won’t die before me…”

“I promise, Felix,” Sylvain tells him, and runs his fingers through his hair. “I won’t die.”

Sylvain is not stupid. And Sylvain is not dumb. And Sylvain knows the likelihood of keeping that promise is slim.

But just this once, Sylvain thinks, it’s fine if he defies the chances.


End file.
